


The One Thing We Got

by samchandler1986



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-06-19 01:38:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 19,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15499458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: The thing about scratching an itch is, before too long there's almost always the temptation to do it again...[A Sam and Ruth centric spin-off sequel to Desert Mirage].





	1. Aftermath

_And I said: "What about Breakfast at Tiffany's?"_

_She said: "I think I remember the film and, as I recall, I think we both kinda liked it"_

_And I said "Well, that's the one thing we've got."_

\- Breakfast at Tiffany's, Deep Blue Something

 

**Sam**

It’s late, and he’s more than little drunk when he stumbles back into his apartment. He stumps into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water. Undone washing-up is still on the side. Two plates smeared with dried-up tomato sauce; two wine glasses—

He turns away. But the box for _Breakfast At Tiffany’s_ is still open on the coffee table: there’s no escape.

His bedroom is worse. The bedsheets are crumpled, smelling vaguely of sweat and… something else. Her, he realises, pressing his face into the pillow. He feels a grotesque, lying in the dark breathing what’s left of her in. But it’s all he has – all that’s left of their brief moment of utter _madness_ —

He rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.

“Oh, you fucking _idiot_ ,” he says to himself.

* * *

**Ruth**

She slides into bed, wrapping the duvet around her like a cocoon.

It’s been such a busy day, so much to think about when it comes to the show, anything else has been put to one side. Folded away. A secret told only by a bruise on her hip that has nothing to do with wrestling; the faintest ache between her legs not quite letting her forget his presence there—

She shifts uncomfortably. It’s hard to reconcile that Ruth with this version of herself, introspective but broadly satisfied. It’s like finishing a really good book. Bittersweet to find you’ve run out of pages, but a relief to know how it all ends.

Now she knows.

She smiles to herself in the dark, picturing his reaction to her describing their love-making as ‘like a good book.’ Her heart skips for a brief second as she confronts Sam and love-making in the same sentence. Not that she can tell him, of course. They both understand it was a one-time event, even with an extended encore.

Her smile drains slightly. She turns over, intending to close her eyes now and sleep. Instead, a shaft of moonlight picks out the ring in silver, lying on her bedside table while she’s taken to leaving it off. A reminder of another future still to be faced. Russell is doing some thinking of his own after their last conversation, about her decision to stay in Vegas and see things out…

Perhaps he’ll come to work here after all. She could even speak to Sam about hiring him back, now the show is—

She stops herself mid fantasy flight, the first prickle of guilt in her gut making itself known. There’s no playing nice to be had between the two men, and it would be madness to try. Even she’s not _that_ naive.   

She burrows deeper into the covers, frowning now, and tries to find sleep.

* * *

**Sam**

Of course, she’s early. She always is.

“Hi,” she says from the doorway. She probably thinks she sounds breathy causal, but he knows her well enough to feel the undercurrent of nervous tension.

“Hey,” he returns, his usual harried self. Weirdly, she seems to find that reassuring. “Ready to plan twenty-weeks-worth of cable television?”

“You want a whole series arc?” She sits down in the chair opposite.  

“Yeah. I think we stick with the bones of what we have – wrestling across time and space is a good concept that holds everything together. But we have maybe three episodes worth, right now. We need more story.”

She nods. “Well, we talked about bringing back the 1920s dance sequence—”

“Right, right, flappers versus mobsters and shit.”

“Yeah! That’s a good heel-face combination right there. And… what about the Godzilla thing…?”

He makes a face. “Too difficult in terms of shooting. And costume.”

“Okay, okay, so; what about superheroes?”

“What about them?”

“Radiation makes them, the same as monsters, right?”

He shakes his head. “We’ve already got mutants as part of the finale.”

“Unless we change it? Just-just hear me out. I was thinking Debbie could… _fly_ into the ring with a cape…”

It’s an arresting visual but he’s unconvinced. “The motorbike works better.”

She sighs. “You’re right, you’re right.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says, pulling out his cigarettes. “Just a surprise to hear I’m _right_.”

She gives him a withering look. “Sometimes, you can be. You know. About… certain decisions.”

There is a long moment, her face colouring slightly as he stares. He’s pretty sure she _isn’t_ talking about— but _maybe_ she—

“You guys are always here so early,” says Bash as he enters, for once a welcome interruption. “What did I miss already?”

“Nothing much,” Sam manages, snapping out of it. He clears his throat as she busies herself with her notebook. “Maybe a 1920s sequence to help make time in the first couple of episodes…”  

* * *

There isn’t much for him to be doing up in the editing box, aside from chain-smoking and prodding scraps of storyboard around. But it’s better than being in his apartment right now, so there he is.

The sound of the mat, rattling wood and steel, cuts through his misery. He strolls out unseen to watch the women rehearsing after hours. Cherry, perched on the ropes; Carmen talking animatedly. And of course, Ruth.

“Okay,” she says, “so, like _this_?” She somersaults forward, landing on her back and then flipping up onto her feet. Cherry claps and Carmen nods, and he finds himself smiling up in the gods of their rehearsal space. It’s her lack of awareness, perhaps, of just how impressive those moments of athleticism really are…

He sighs. Lurking like some creepy _Phantom of the Wrestling Soap Opera_ really isn’t going to help his situation. And this is Vegas, after all. If he can’t find some distraction from her in this town, he really _is_ a lost cause.

He takes the back stairs, down towards the main stage and the double doors out onto the Strip. Not his usual route, but he doesn’t want them to know—

He stops, sniffs. There’s a burnt-toast kind of smell in the air but he’s nowhere near a kitchen. He thinks he might have read, once, that this is the first sign of a stroke; knows a moment of mild panic. Then he sees the smoke, uncoiling lazily along the ceiling, and shifts up a gear into full-blown dread.

It goes against every instinct to run _towards_ the fire, but he’s not a coward. Not when it comes to things like this, anyway. There’s still a chance it’s just a blown light or—or—

Flames are licking along the ceiling towards him; their time machine set already a blackened and twisted skeleton amongst the inferno. There’s no _fighting_ this – they’re going to be lucky if a blaze this size doesn’t claim the whole casino by the time the firefighters arrive.

There’s an alarm on the wall. He puts his elbow through the glass, setting the thing yowling, before turning tail and running back.

Carmen, Cherry and Ruth are sensible enough, at least, to take a fire alarm seriously. They are already in the corridor. “Sam, what the hell?”

“Someone set the place on fucking fire!” he yells. “Come on!”

Carmen and Cherry sensibly bolt, but of course Ruth has to _question_. “What—?”

He grabs hold of her arm, stopping her running back. “I’m not joking, come on, come on!”

“But, the set, can’t we try to—?”

The sprinklers slam on at last, soaking them both. “Jesus Christ, Ruth! Do I have to carry you out?”

“No, no,” she manages, in a daze. “I just don’t understand—”

He takes her hand, dragging her away. “What’s not to understand? It’s Nicky, Ruth. He’s burned us out of town.”


	2. Shock

**Ruth**

Someone has given her a blue blanket to wear. She drapes it like a cape around her shoulders. It all looks very disaster-movie, but she’s not exactly sure _why_. It’s a warm night. She says as much to Sam, who is smoking morosely next to her on the kerb.

“It’s for the shock.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

It’s always dangerous when he’s circling the emotional drain like this. She casts about for something to say. “Looks like they’ve saved most of the infrastructure,” she tries, bright as she can be.

He drags on his cigarette, not looking up at her. “Fire started on our stage.”

“Well, maybe some things will have survived in the dressing room—”

“No.”

“You don’t _know_ that—”

“I fucking know!” he snarls. “Alright? You didn’t see what it was like.”

“Only because you wouldn’t _let_ me—”

“Jesus _Christ_ , Ruth.” He shakes his head. “It’s over. Just, just, let it be over…”

She tries, honestly, to see it from his point of view. But it’s so patently _wrong_ she can’t keep her mouth closed. “It’s _not_ over. So, we’ve lost the sets, the costumes. Who cares? We didn’t have either when we started making this thing. We’ve still got some budget, _and_ a signed contract to make twenty episodes. Bash still owns the gym.”  

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Or-or maybe one of the other casinos will give us space if we asked,” she continues. “I’m just saying: we’re down but we’re not out. But if we are going to do this again, you need to get over whatever…” She waves her hands, struggling to frame the concept. “… whatever _this_ is.”

“This?” He stubs out his cigarette. “ _This_ is a reasonable emotional response to someone _literally_ taking a match to my show—”

“ _Your_ show?”

He stands, eyes flinty; jaw set. “Yes, Ruth, _my_ show. I’m still the fucking director.”

She shakes her head, not intimidated. “This isn’t just about you! GLOW belongs to all of us. It always has.”

He gives her a look of what can only be described as contempt. “Is that supposed to make me feel better? Telling me that I don’t even—”

“Sam!” she shouts, before he says something they’ll both regret. “Yes!”

“Well!” he snaps, only to find he’s run out of comeback. “… It doesn’t.”

“Well, I’m—I’m sorry you feel that way!”

Even to her ears, it’s a stupidly earnest thing to crown an argument with. He doesn’t laugh, his body is still stiff with anger, but his moustache twitches. “That it?”

“Yeah,” she says, her own arms folded. “Yeah, that’s about it.”

He sighs.  “Look, I need a drink—”

“Or you could go home and tell the others what happened.”

A scoff at that sensible suggestion. “Cherry and Carmen—”

“Aren’t the… _fucking_ director!” She stumbles slightly over the swear word, throwing his own words back to him. “If you’re the boss, _be_ the boss. Now. When we need you.”

His anger stalls again. He shakes his head as he makes his decision. It could go either way she knows; but if he walks away now it might just be the end of their friendship.

She realises she’s holding her breath.  

He screws up his face. “God _damn_ it. I don’t— I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to them…”

She starts breathing again, trying not to sag with relief. “Just tell them what happened,” she suggests. “For now.” She looks around, at the sea of blue-blanketed, vaguely dispossessed looking people. “We’re never going to get a cab, anyway. You can think it over on the walk back.”

“Great,” he deadpans.

But he follows her anyway, into the night.

* * *

 

**Sam**

“You,” says Ray, taking the seat next to him in the _Riviera_ bar, “are either very brave or very stupid.”

“How about both?” Sam replies, swirling the whiskey in his glass.

“I can believe that.” Ray catches the eye of the bartender, orders a Bloody Mary. “Helluva night.”

“Everyone okay?”

“Minor injuries. Could have been a lot worse. Someone disconnected the sprinkler system and the alarms in the main stage area. Luckily the alarm was set off by hand…”

“You’re welcome.”

“Huh. I figured it might have been you.” The low chatter of the morning casino fills the silence between the two men, as Ray drains his glass. “I’m sorry it ended up this way.”

“Me too.”

“But you know what it means.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Time to get out of town.”

“I’d hate to see you or the girls get hurt.”

He makes a face. His ribs twinge to remind him, he’s already been hurt. This _is_ hurting. Just when life seemed to be—well, not on an even keel, he’s not that much of fucking optimist – but at least like it might contain some interesting distractions for the next few weeks, everything has been snatched away.

Of course, Ray means something a little less emotional.

“Yeah,” he says, for want of something better.

“You’re welcome at the club, if you’re heading back to LA.”

“Thanks.”

Ray claps him on the shoulder, face sympathetic, and leaves him to his day-drinking. Factually, that’s what this is. He did as Ruth asked and held it together for an evening; now he’s rewarding himself with a day of oblivion. Or punishing himself, he’s really not sure which—

“Hey, man, I’m going – I’m going—”

His eye catches on the minor scuffle at the blackjack table, security moving someone out towards the doors. A kid, long and lanky; not the usual sort of clientele at all. Interest piqued, he moves to follow. He may as well be _entertained_ as he slowly poisons himself. 

“—and stay out. Alright, kid? Next time we won’t be so friendly.”

“It’s _not_ illegal.”

“Doesn’t matter. House makes the rules here.”

The guards let him go. The kid brushes himself off, glaring after them, but it’s clear he’s not going to try his luck again in the _Riviera._

“What d’you do to piss ‘em off?” Sam says, lighting up a cigarette.

“What? Oh, nothing…” Wary, defensive. He squints at Sam. “Do I know you?”

“Nope. Just about to be run out of town myself.”

“For reals? What for?”

“Pissed off the wrong casino boss.”

“Huh, well, I know _that_ tune.” He takes a cigarette from Sam’s proffered carton. “Thanks.”

“So, what you do? Count cards?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, that’s pretty much it.”

“… Does it work?”

The kid laughs. “The way I do it? Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“You’ve got like… a photographic memory or some shit?”

“No, no. Everyone thinks that, but you don’t have to remember every card. It’s just arithmetic. Shop cashiers could do it.”

“Wonder why they don’t. Sam, by the way.”

“Ted. You need a decent stake to put in. And, um, it works better if you have a team. That’s why cashiers aren’t doing it.”

“So… if you had that…”

“What?”

“A decent stake. And a team.”

Ted laughs. “I could fucking clean them _out_.”  


	3. Disguises

**Sam**

“Are you… high right now?” Debbie checks.

“No, I’m not—” he starts, but his sweaty, agitated state makes the denial somewhat implausible. “That… that’s not the point.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, sitting back in her chair.

“Ruth,” he tries, turning on the easier target. “What do _you_ think?” 

She opens her mouth, eyes big and blue enough to drown in. Fuck. “I don’t think it sounds like a good idea. I mean, if Nicky realises it’s us, what’s he going to do?”

“He’s not _going_ to realise it’s us. Weren’t you listening to the part about the fucking disguises?”

She’s looking at him like he’s crazy. Maybe he _is_ crazy. Maybe this is him finally losing the plot. It all seemed so _clear_ half an hour ago; the scene playing out in the theatre of his mind like a vision of GLOW once did, what feels like a lifetime ago.   

“Well, _I_ think it’s a great idea,” says Bash, reassuring none of them. “It’s like _Ocean’s 11_!”

“Yeah, except they lose all the money at the end and we’re going to keep it. Minus Ted’s cut.”

“You _trust_ this Ted?” Ruth asks, incredulous.

“No! I’m not an idiot. But it doesn’t matter. I must have watched him play seventy games today – we started out with a hundred dollars. We were a _thousand_ up by one.” Almost half of which he subsequently drank, smoked and put up his nose, he doesn’t add.

Debbie and Ruth exchange a glance and he senses an opening. “Look, we need the money if we’re going to make the gym look anywhere near what it’s supposed to; remake all the props and costumes. And…" He sighs. "...I don’t want it to end like this. I don’t want Nicky to win.”

There’s the crux of it, the naked need. Debbie shakes her head at his thwarted male ego. Ruth is more sympathetic, still doubtful. “Sam…”

“If we go toe-to-toe, you’re right. Someone’s going to wind up dead in an alleyway. Most likely me. But _this_ way? He’ll never even know what’s missing. But every fucking shot I make, on a camera his casino paid for? _I’ll_ know.”

Debbie rolls her eyes. “So, this is, what, retribution for your broken ribs?” 

“Yeah. This is us just for _once_ not having to roll over and take whatever shit is being handed out. This is fighting back.”

“Justice,” says Ruth softly, nodding. He has to fight to keep a triumphant smile off his face, knowing she’s wavering. He plays his trump card instead.

“Yeah. For all of us. Every cent we make will go back into the show.”

Debbie narrows her eyes, suspicious. “Altruistic of you.”

He shrugs, holding up his hands. “I’m not ready for GLOW to be over. Alright? I don’t want to—”

“Okay,” Debbie cuts him off, already uncomfortable at the exposure of his needy emotional state. “This is _crazy_ , and there is no way in hell that I’m coming into a casino with you to do it. But… I’ll help with the financial backing.”

He nods. It’s something. “Thank you.”

“Well, _I’m_ all in,” Bash enthuses. “What kind of costume do you think—?”

“Seven times nine.”  

“...What?”

“Sixty-three,” says Ruth and Debbie together, answer imported direct from elementary rote-learning.

“Fourteen times six.”   

A longer pause, enough for Bash to start counting on his fingers. “Eighty-four,” says Ruth. She misreads their stares. “What you do is six tens, and then _add_ six times four—”  

“— _Why_ are we doing multiplication?” Bash asks, completely at sea.

“You need to be good at math to count cards,” Sam says.

Bash’s shoulders slump. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Sorry, Bash, but you’re out.” He taps out a cigarette from the box, thinking hard. “So… who else do we have that’s good at arithmetic?”

* * *

**Ruth**

“Oh, God,” she says, looking at the alien reflection in Debbie’s mirror. “I don’t think I can do this…”

Debbie compresses her mouth. “It’s just a part,” she offers. “Just another acting job.”

“I guess… What?”

“Nothing! I just...  _God_ , it’s weird to see you blonde.”

Ruth touches the ends of the wig self-consciously. “Does it look real?”

“Yeah. Well, no, but it looks good.”

There is a knock at the door. “Come in!”

“This feels _really_ weird,” says the stranger that enters in Sheila’s voice. “It’s like being naked in public.”

Ruth opens her mouth to offer an honest compliment and closes it again. To her eyes, perhaps, Sheila looks beautiful like this – but it’s still beautiful in the wrong shape as far as her friend is concerned.

“You don’t have to do this,” she says instead. “It’s not too late to back out.”

Sheila nods, clearly steeling herself. “I know. I think I can handle it. Are _you_ okay?”

“Uh, no,” she says, honestly. “But I guess it’s just… sensible nerves. Before committing crime. Right?”

“Right.”

She checks her watch, surprised to find a thin silver chain borrowed from Debbie in place of her usual Casio. “It’s time.”

“Good luck,” says Debbie, haltingly, hugging her own arms. “And, bail out if it gets dangerous, okay? This isn’t worth… Well, you know.”

There’s a beat of understanding between them, a shared sad smile.  
  
“I know,” says Ruth. 

* * *

 

A salesman of some kind is waiting in the lobby, tapping his fingers on the knees of his neat blue suit. His eyes widen at the sight of her and she tries not to cringe; to smile instead, as befits her glamorous character—

It’s Sam.

Her mouth drops open. Mustachioed no more, with his hair combed back; he’s almost unrecognisable. A pair of brow-line spectacles in place of his usual aviator frames give him the air of a NASA scientist in mission control.

“You _shaved_?”

He shrugs, defensive. “I mean… it’ll grow back.”

“I feel like I’m in an episode of the _Twilight Zone_ ,” says Sheila. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, taking in their wolf-in-human-form. “Me too. You ready to do this?”

They both nod.

“As we’ll ever be,” says Ruth.  


	4. Heist

**Sam**

_“So, here’s how it works,” Ted had said. “First, we need the counters…”_

He sips his drink, more melted ice than anything else now, and wipes a bead of sweat from his top lip. The absence of his moustache is still a surprise every time he touches his face. Christ, it’s been _years_ since he went out clean-shaven.

He’s betting small, just about breaking even; keeping himself in the game. A two; that’s a plus one, makes ten— 

The redhead on his right is smiling at him again as the dealer pays out another bet. “So, you come here a lot?”

“Oh, no,” he says, “Just in Vegas for a day or two. I’m in sales…”

It’s no kind of answer, but he gets the feeling she’s not _really_ interested in his scintillating personality. “What kind of things do you sell?”

Twelve, or is it eleven? Fuck, fuck. It’s twelve. He’s pretty sure. “Uh, industrial vacuum cleaners.”

“A lot of call for those?”

“Some,” he says. “Hence… you know, why I’m here.” He risks looking up for a second. Of course, she’s the best-looking woman that’s hit on him in… oh, maybe _ever_.

Perhaps he should shave more often.

He wipes his lip again, as the cards turn, and he tries to play, count _and_ flirt at the same time.

* * *

_“When the table’s hot,” Ted continued, “that’s when the high-roller comes in…”_

Twenty-one, and it’s time. He runs his hands through his hair, like he’s considering his position at the table. “Oh, I should probably call it quits,” he says, to really sell it. He hopes she sees—

“Baby,” says the red-head. She’s told him her name at some point over the last hour but he’s bad with them at the best of times, let alone when he’s distracted. “This is _Vegas_. You should live a little.”

Twenty two. Twenty one. Twenty two again. “Well, maybe one more hand…”

Ruth takes the empty seat on his left. “Hi,” she says, in a voice of sultry honey.

To everyone else it probably sounds sexy as hell. But he knows her too well, can feel the _effort_ it’s costing her; an acting job every bit as difficult as somersaulting into the ring. Still, it makes his blinking believable, as he plays an over-awed Joe Schmo to her glamorous siren, and tells her the count.

“Hi,” he says back, stupidly.

* * *

_“Counters clear out, let them raise the bets… Move on to the next set of tables.”_

He sips his beer. Sheila is sat next to him at the bar but facing out to the room; ignoring him as if he’s a stranger.

“ _Alameda_?” he says to his drink.

“Mm-hm.” She turns, putting down her glass of water and meeting his eyes for a moment. Even without her wolfish accoutrements, she’s still unnervingly intense. “See you there in ten.”

He lets her go, watching Ruth in the bar mirror as she celebrates another big win. A fist pump, body language straight from the Bash Howard playbook. He shakes his head. Everything’s always so _crafted_ with her… Like a—a female Brando. Only with a blunt honesty in place of a towering temper. Maybe that’s her problem. Hollywood isn’t exactly interested in writing Terry Malloy with tits—

He realises he’s staring.

Sighing, he transfers his attention back to his beer, until he’s finished the bottle and it’s time to follow Sheila on to their next target.

* * *

**Ruth**

Ted catches her as she enters the _Alameda_. She almost doesn’t recognise him; transformation from vaguely Beatnik hipster to slick New Romantic testament to Dawn and Stacy’s makeover skills. They pretend to play the slots to cover their conversation.

“Table went hot fast, so Sam’s playing high roller right now…”

She risks a look. It’s still strange to see him clean-shaven, but he’s acquired a large cigar that’s helping to make up for the loss; his tie long since disappeared. She smiles, in spite of herself. Of course, he was never going to hide for _long_ in the guise of mild-mannered vacuum salesman…

 She realises Ted is still talking. “Hmm?”

“I said Sheila’s gone on to the _Riviera._ You ready to go join?”

“Sure,” she says.

* * *

Dawn is breaking, pink and gold, when their taxi pulls up at the apartments.

“You want to come and check the count?”

Sheila shakes her head. “I need to … not be this _thing_ anymore,” she says, twitching; past the point of endurance.

Ruth nods, understanding. “Me too. Sheila, you were _amazing_ tonight. We couldn’t have done it without you.”

She gets a smile in return for that, before the wolf turns tail and flees. Sam watches her go nonplussed. “She doesn’t want to stay to _count_?”

“She say’s it’s ten thousand, two hundred and seventy-three dollars.”

“Fuck. Sounds accurate.” He puts down the holdall for a moment, lights a cigarette. “I mean, it can _wait_ …” She gives him a filthy look until he cracks into a grin. “Come on then Blondie.”

“Whatever you say, baby-face.”

He winces, as they climb the stairs. “Don’t. There’s a whole… thing going on under here I didn’t even know about.”

“What, like your mouth?”

“Very funny. No, these… what do you even call these?”

“Your _cheeks_?”

He gives up. “Well, whatever they are, there didn’t used to be so _much_ of them. What?”

“Nothing,” she laughs. “You look fine. And it’ll grow back. Right?” They step inside and she pulls off the hateful wig at last, shaking out her flattened hair. “Oh, _God_ , that’s better.”

She makes the mistake of catching his eye. For a second his unguarded expression is one she can only describe as _longing_. She swallows. She’s not at _all_ sure what her reaction would be, if he were to close the distance between them now—

He grits his teeth and turns away. “Anyway,” he says, tightly. “Moment of truth time…” He empties the bag onto the table, neat bricks of hundred-dollar bills falling out.

They stare at the money.

“Why the _fuck_ are we bothering trying to make a TV show? We could just do this for a few more nights and live like kings.”

She laughs. “You’d get bored.” 

“I dunno. This could buy a _lot_ of distraction...”


	5. Compromise

**Sam**

It’s depressingly easy, really, to pack up his life. A suitcase for his clothes. A couple of boxes—mostly books and video tapes—that he’ll send back to LA by post. Another chapter over.

He watches smoke curl from his cigarette and wonders, realistically, how many more can there _be_?

 _Knock-knock_.

“Yeah,” he calls, knowing who it is.

She enters frowning. “Does that mean—?”

“It means yeah, you can come in,” he clarifies, shaking his head. How someone can make such an ordeal out of merely opening a door he’ll never understand.

“Right, right.” She gives him a smile. “You nearly packed?”

He waves an arm at the suitcase standing ready to go. Her lips purse in the face of his irritable response, trying to work out the cause of his bad mood. “Look,” he says. “Don’t – don’t try and cheer me up, alright? I’m grumpy but I’ll get over it.”

She nods, coming to sit next to him on the dining table. “Well, maybe _I_ need cheering up,” she says lightly. “I’m sad to be leaving, too.”

“Really?” Heavy on the sarcasm.

“Really! I mean, Vegas isn’t exactly my kind of town, sure… But the show was—” Her voice cracks slightly, and she swallows. “—well, it was amazing here. And I know, I know, it’s going to be… _great_ back at the gym. But the audiences! And the stage—”

“You missed being a drama nerd.”

“Yeah! Yeah, I really did.”

He’s smiling in spite of himself. Ignoring the part of his brain that scoffs at how _pathetic_ it is, that he should enjoy just the pleasure of her company so fucking much. “Well, I do have one distraction ready to go...”

“Oh?”

“Insurance is sorted for _Sophie_. We can start shooting when you’re ready.”

“You’re joking?”

“No. Honest truth. Once you’re… you know, once things are—” He has no idea where he’s going with this, because he has precisely zero desire to know the details of her situation with Russell. He coughs and pulls himself together. “Anyway, you can come over and we can put together a timetable.”

She’s smiling now too. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Good.”

Her fingers tap on the table top, as she screws up her courage for something else. His heart is suddenly thumping painfully, to his horror. “I… um, I got you something. To say goodbye to Vegas.”

“Oh?” He raises his eyebrows, expecting more vodka. In fact, it’s a matchbox-sized plain cardboard package.

He opens it to find a fake moustache. “Until the real one grows back,” she says, unnecessarily.

“Thanks,” he manages. “I hate it.”

She laughs. “You’re welcome.”

He considers it further. “Maybe… maybe you should wear it. You know? When you’re calling the shots.”

“Think it’d give me more authority? Gravitas?” She grins up at him.

“Why do you think I grew one in the first place?” he smiles back.

Eventually she looks away, mouth still quirking with amusement. “I, uh, I need to go help Carmen with Melrose’s case. Save me a seat on the bus?”

“Oh… I’ll think about it.”

* * *

The three of them are already standing at the door of the gym, a grim tableau, when he pulls up. “Jesus Christ,” he says, getting out of the car. “Could you not be so _dramatic_?” He waves a hand at the building. “It’s still here. Still standing.” The padlock on the door has rusted; he has to really force the key to turn. “Still a piece of shit,” he adds with feeling.

The door opens under his hand and they step inside. In his mind’s eye the place is still wooden bleachers and grey-washed walls, sunlight streaming in through mullioned windows; but that’s not quite how they left it. The black drapes of their first season are still pinned up, a powerful smell of damp—

“Is that a _rat_?” Ruth says, flinching at something that scuttles across the floor.

“I hope so,” he says, “because if it’s a cockroach we’re in _real_ fucking trouble.”

“Ugh,” she says, actually putting the back of her hand to her mouth. He forgets, sometimes, she’s a little squeamish. “Why would you even _say—_?”

“So, we need to call in a cleaning team,” Debbie cuts across, bringing them back to task. “What else?”

“You should go through the props we left behind,” he says. “See if there’s anything still usable…”

“Where are _you_ going?”

“Check my office.” He’s already at the foot of the stairs.

“Right,” Debbie says, folding her arms. “So, we risk rat-catcher’s fever while you hide up there?”

He opens his mouth to argue, but she has a point. “Alright, alright, I’ll come and help. I just want to… check the place over, okay? Look, I’ll do the locker room too, how’s that?” He doesn’t wait to hear her comeback; jogs up the stairs to his old lair.

It’s pretty much as it was, the glaring absence of the monitors and his typewriter notwithstanding. It smells more strongly of stale cigarette smoke than he remembers, which he immediately remedies by lighting-up a fresh one.  

It’s not good to be back. But it’s not bad either. Down, as Ruth like to say, but not out. Yeah. He can work with that.  

He takes in another lungful of smoke, looking down at where the ring should be in the centre of the space. First things first…

He picks up the telephone. The line, of course, is disconnected dead.

“Hey, Bash!” he yells, trotting back down the stairs to find the others. “You got that… cell thingy… with you?”

* * *

He’s typing furiously, cigarette wobbling as he mutters dialogue to himself—

_Knock-knock._

He stops, taking the cigarette out of his mouth, perplexed. He knows that knock. It’s _Ruth’s_ knock. But she doesn’t live a flight of stairs above him anymore, and it’s almost one in the morning.

“Hi,” she says, when he opens the door. Frowning, _angry_ ; which has the shock of the unusual. She takes in his horrible blue dressing gown, hastily thrown over tee shirt and boxer shorts. “Fuck. You were in bed. I-I shouldn’t have—”

“No, no,” he says. “I wasn’t asleep. D’you wanna come in?” Which is a fucking stupid question to ask, he chides himself – why else would she be knocking? He tries again. “Are you… okay?”

She steps inside. “I… I think I did something—” She stops, screwing up her face. “I think maybe I did something really stupid. And I promised Sheila a night to herself… and I… I didn’t know where else to go...” 

He blinks at her. “Okay.” They’re going to have to force open some of those gaps if he’s to have any hope of making sense of what she’s just said. “Just… sit there.” He points at the sofa, which she collapses down onto, head in her hands. She’s still holding her head when he returns from the kitchen with a bottle and two glasses. He pours her a large measure of bourbon. “Here,” he says.

She looks up at last, shaking her refusal. “It’s not… I don’t…”

“Fine.” He pours his own glass; drains it. She gives him a look as he measures out his second. Takes a reluctant sip of her own, wincing at the burn.

“Ugh, I don’t know how you drink this stuff...”

“Well, you know, it helps.”

“With _what_?”

He shrugs. “Poor life decisions?”

“Well, some of us don’t need bourbon for that…”

“Hmm.” His moustache, less luxuriant than usual but returning day-by-day, twitches. “You wanna talk about it?”

She groans, putting her hands over her eyes. “…No?”

“Fine. That’s fine. I’ll just be over here getting on with the work you interrupted.” He takes a seat back at his desk.

“You’re writing?”

“Yeah. My screenplay,” he adds, a touch defensively.

“Can I—?”

“No. No. Not yet.”

“But eventually?”

“Uh, we’ll see.”

She takes another sip of bourbon. “I went to see Russell.”

“Oh.” Some of his giddy good humour drains away. He doesn’t know what else to say.

She sighs. “We’re not… we decided that—we—”

Someone has to grasp the nettle. “You broke up?” he says briskly.

A wince. “I mean, we’d already said we were… Oh, God. It all sounds so high school. You don’t want to hear this.”

“No,” he agrees, “but I think you need to say it.”

Another deep sigh. The words, when they come, all in a rush. “He said that I won’t make space for a relationship. But it’s… it’s _him_ that won’t come back to work for _GLOW—”_

“You offered him a fucking _job_?”

Her face falls further. “Yeah. I—I cleared it with Bash and Debbie—”

“Oh, but not me? The fucking director?”

“Sam, can you just—? For five minutes can this not be about you? He said _no_ , anyway.”  

He’s scowling angry now too. “You _always_ do this. Fucking undermine me—”

“You’d have said _no_!”

“You don’t know that! I can be reasonable!”

“Oh, right! When it suits you, sure.”

“What the fuck does _that_ mean?”

“Look, I’m going to go—” She puts down her glass, making to leave.

“Sit _down_ ,” he says. “Yes, I’m mad at you. No, that doesn’t mean you should… fucking abscond into the night. We’re adults. We can talk this out.”   

“Really?”

“I don’t fucking know. But we should probably at least _try_.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose. “I just… I don’t understand how it ended up so complicated.”

He looks at her, disbelieving for a long moment. But he knows her well enough to see the hurt bewilderment is genuine, if shockingly naïve. “It’s _not_ complicated. Just at some point we all have to choose.”

“Choose what?”

“To commit. You know? To-to show up for another person. To be there. Even for the shitty parts. To…” The word sticks still in his throat, even now. “… to _compromise_.”

“Why?”

“What d’you mean, _why_?”

“Why does there have to be a compromise?”

He makes an irritated noise. “Because the job we do doesn’t make space for other people in it. You know? It’s not nine to five; we don’t just leave making art at the door when we come home.”

“But why does that matter? You know, Russell’s in the business too. He has talent and—and good ideas.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure he does.”

“Don’t-don’t—”

“Okay, fine, he has good ideas too. Whatever. But sooner or later, Ruth, most people want more.” He drains the rest of his second glass. “Why the fuck d’you think Carolyn left me?”

She’s all eyes in her face. They’ve never talked about his divorce. “I-I have no idea… I thought she cheated on you—”

“With my Steadicam operator. Yeah.” It still stings, even after all this time. “People don’t do that kind of thing in a healthy relationship. I _know_ you know that.”

She looks a little bit sick. “I – I –”

“Look. I married my lead actress. Because I was… getting older, and I was lonely, and I thought she could be… y’know. A _muse_. That we’d make great films together. We had about six months before she started wanting more than that. A bigger house. A dog… Kids.”

A long silence. She nods, slowly. “Yeah. I – uh—”

“You don’t have to explain that shit to me, okay? I never wanted it either. But it means… it means that side of life probably doesn’t happen for us. And that’s hard too.”

She nods again, sipping some more of her bourbon. Eventually she looks up at him, eyes brimming with tears. And some dark, terrible part of his person wants more than anything now to cross the room and kiss her senseless; to take her into his bed and fuck themselves into oblivion—

“Take Justine’s room,” he hears himself say, standing up. “I’m going to bed. It’ll look better in the morning. Things always do.”


	6. Snakes

**Ruth**

She wakes to the smell of bacon. Can hear him clanking about in the kitchen, swearing occasionally. She stretches out under the covers, taking in the room. It’s in some sort of hybrid state, transitioning from a fairly spartan guest bed to Justine’s home-away-from-home. Posters are roughly tacked up, the desk dominated by an enormous record player and speakers. Vinyl stacked either side. She doesn’t recognise any of the band names when she stands to take a closer look. Rolls her shoulders, clicking out the aches, and opens the door to face the music.

“Hey.” He points to the pot on the boil. “Coffee.”

She pours a cup, watching him cook between sips. He’s not half bad at it, one of his more unexpected quirks. Maybe there’s a point of connection between cookery and directing; something to do with control, process. A product put out for consumption by a potentially critical audience...

Or maybe she’s overthinking it. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Thanks,” she says, as he thrusts a plate at her.

“You do the same for me.”

She meant the breakfast. Words catch in her throat as she tries to find the right response—

“It’s fine,” he says, moving them on. “Go, eat. We need to talk timetable.”

She takes the seat opposite him at the dining table, cutting into her bacon. “I thought… with _GLOW_ … we’re not looking to film until at least August?” 

“I think we should shoot before _GLOW._ ”

“Are you… kidding?” she says, through a mouthful. “That only gives us six weeks!”

“I know, I know. It’ll be tight. But we’re ready to go now… and the way our luck’s been recently? I think we need to pull the trigger before anything else happens.”  

She swallows her bacon. “I don’t know Sam…”

“Look, I was right about Ted, wasn’t I?”

“I guess…”

“Just, trust me.” She feels like a rabbit caught in the headlights as he glares across the table at her. “This is the right call.”

“I… I want to,” she says. “I do.”

He looks away for a moment, clearly hurt, something stiffening in his jaw. She half expects him to start shouting. Six months ago he almost certainly would have. “Okay,” he says instead. “Let me… let’s walk it through on paper, alright? Then make a decision.”

Her appetite for bacon has all but vanished, but she turns her attention back to her breakfast rather than look at him right now. "Alright," she says. 

* * *

  **Sam**

He shakes his head. “I should go over there.”

Justine scoffs. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

They are standing just off set, watching Ruth argue with a delivery driver attempting to explain why only half of the ordered set dressing has arrived on schedule.

“What do you mean?”

She folds her arms. “If Ruth did that to you on _GLOW_ you would lose your shit.”

“No I wouldn’t—”

“I’ve literally watched it happen!”

“Yeah, well, this is different—”

“How?”

“It’s her first time! She doesn’t know how to deal with that bullshit. You can’t be _nice_ about it. They need to know who the boss is.”

She narrows her eyes. “And you think _you_ going over there to yell at them is going to avoid that confusion?”

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” he snaps, “when did you get so… so fucking…”

“Right all the time? I was told it was genetic.”

“Yeah? Well, I can tell you now that Sylvia smart mouth leads _nowhere_ good.”

She looks around them, shrugs. “Seems alright to me.”

“Fuck.” He shakes his head. “Alright, look. We can at least set up the shots. Try and claw back a bit of time for later…”

* * *

“Sam?”

He looks up from the camera eye-piece at Ruth's worried face, miserable enough for him to risk a bit of sympathy. “You alright?”

“How long can I… I mean, what’s a reasonable amount of overtime to ask of the crew tonight?”

He shrugs. “Whatever you can pay them for. Which is… basically nothing. But who said you have to _reasonable_?”

She closes her eyes briefly. “Fuck. Well, thanks anyway…” She starts to move away, rubbing at her forehead.

“Ruth, wait.” He considers things for a moment. “Ask for an hour. Budget can probably cover it at a push, and it’s not going to ruin anyone’s evening.”  

“But it’s going to take more than that to—”

“I know. I’ll stay. So will Justine. Maybe some of the others will too, if they feel like impressing the new boss. Get the lighting rigged. The rest of it is just fucking… paint and wallpaper at the end of the day. How hard can it be?”  

* * *

Three hours later, he’s beginning to regret those words. His arms are screaming at him, the old ache from his broken ribs returned, as he rollers paint onto the ceiling perched on an apple box.

“You okay?” Ruth checks, glancing up at him from where she is carefully brushing into the corner.

“I’m fine,” he lies. “This is the last set, right?”

“Yup.”

He looks around. There’s not a lot left to paint, but it’s going to need more than one coat to disguise the cheap pine wood. A couple of hours, maybe. If they’re lucky.

“Justine?” he yells.

“Yeah!” she calls back from the adjacent set, which she’s ostensibly dressing.

“Go find a payphone and order us some food!”

“What do you want?!”

“Uh—!”

“Can you _not_ do this shouting through the wall?” interrupts Ruth.

“Oh,” he says, at a more normal volume. “Okay.” He takes in breath before yelling even louder:  “Justine! Get in here!”

She flinches, shaking her head as he chuckles. Ignores him pointedly until Justine has been despatched with their order; painting with her back to him.  

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re mad,” he says, when the silence becomes boring.

“No, I’m not mad,” she says, unconvincingly. “Just. You know. _Stressed_. It’s not even… official Day One and we’re already behind.”

“Eh, this is nothing.”

“Really?”

She looks up at him and he wonders briefly how she does that; how her eyes somehow… inflate. He puts down his roller for a moment, dropping down from his box. “Yeah. First set I ever worked on? This… shitty double creature-feature where women turned into snakes. And of course, the director wanted  _real_ snakes. One of ‘em got loose, no one could find the thing. So every damn cable on the set has the leads screaming hysterical. Guys as well as the girls. Production ground to halt. And guess which idiot landed the job of finding the fucking snake?”

“You?” She looks incredulous.

“Yep.”  

Her nose wrinkles. “So, what did you do?”

He holds up his hands, indicating the ceiling. “Turned on all the lights. They kick out a lot of heat. Bought the thing out of hiding once the place was quiet enough.”

“Huh.” She considers this, grudgingly impressed. “Clever.”

“I have my moments.”

“I just didn’t realise snake charming was one of your credentials.”

“I like to keep that one on the down-low...”

“I’ll bet—”

“Hey.” Justine, breathless after running back from the payphone, breaks the moment. They turn to her in unison, almost guilty; only now aware of just how close they’ve been standing. She looks from his face to Ruth's, not quite able to work out what she’s just interrupted. In fairness it’s not like _he_ has any fucking clue. “Food's on its way,” she says, for want of something better.  

“Great,” says Ruth, too bright, turning back to her work.

“Yeah,” he says, watching her back for a moment before picking up his roller again. “Great.”


	7. On Set

**Sam**

“—and every time Frank just… comes back at me with a list of sound issues!”

“Mm-hm.”

She paces his living room floor in high dudgeon. “It’s _his_ job. And when I have to stop and fix things for him, it’s time out from _another_ thing that’s gone wrong.”

“So? Fire him. You’re the boss.” He takes a swig of his beer.

“But then I look like I just couldn’t handle—”

“ _What_? No. He’s being an asshole. Just fire him already.”

She shakes her head. “You make it sound so straightforward.”

“Because it _is_ straightforward.”

She makes a noise of dissent, but collapses down next to him on the sofa anyway, picking up her own beer. “Happy half-way point?” she says, sing-song sarcastic.

He bumps the bottom of his bottle against hers. “How about: happy ‘thank fuck we’ve made it this far?’”

“That… _does_ sound more appropriate.” He watches in mild surprise as she chugs a good half of her bottle. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing. Just… go easy, maybe?”

She makes a familiar squeak of outrage. “That’s _rich_ coming from you…”

“Alright, alright.” He takes another sip. “Okay. We need to do next week’s call lists, chase craft services for the location shooting…”

“Two costumes need fixing. I think we need an outdoor generator too.” Her head slumps back against the cushions. “Can we eat before we do all this?”

“Sure.”

“Do we need to wait for Justine, or…?”

“No, she’s out.”

“Right. Um, you do know… where, right?”

“Not a fucking clue.”

She smiles, but can never resist being a goody-two-shoes. “Should you maybe—?”

“I know where she _said_ she’s going to be. At Billy’s. There’s maybe a… twenty per cent chance that’s where she _actually_ is.”

“That’s still going on?”

“Yup.”

She makes a so-so movement with her head, close enough that her hair tickles his ear. “Sounds like it’s pretty serious.”

“Yeah. No. Maybe. I don’t fucking know.”

Her shoulders shake, supressing laughter. “She’s good for you.”

He sighs, long suffering. "Yeah. She is. Don’t tell her I said that, though.”

Her head is almost on his shoulder. If he looks at her right now he’s going to do something stupid, like try to kiss her. Instead, he claims back some space between them; reaching for his cigarettes, standing to go and smoke at the window.

“So,” she says, oblivious to his discomfort. “Not pizza then, I take it?”

* * *

 

**Ruth**

“Okay,” he’s saying to Justine, “So, a Sergio?”

“Close up on the eyes. Spaghetti-western style.”

“Choker?”

“Face, eyebrow to mouth.”

“See?” He spreads his hands. “Piece of cake.”

The teenager blows hair away from her face, sweating in the midday heat. “This is so much easier on set…”

“You guys ready?” Ruth calls.

It’s their last day of shooting on location. A tender moment between two of the young leads to capture, which is why she’s switched Justine to main operator; stripped the crew down to the bare minimum.

“Ready,” calls Sam, sitting down at the monitors. The budget is stretched so thin they’ve got an ancient beach umbrella to shade the equipment. With his sunglasses and cigarette aglow, he looks more than half a holidaymaker.

She turns her attention back to the clapperboard, adding the take.

“Okay. And _action!”_

* * *

She’s coiling cables, packing up the last of the equipment. Cut down crew means striking set herself. It was worth it though, she thinks, to get the emotional tone they needed. The rushes look good at least—

“Want a hand?” Sam asks, ambling back up the hill.

“Yeah, thanks. I mean, if you have time.”

“I’ve got time.” He winds cable expertly. “Justine caught a lift back with Cynthia and Kyle…”

Her mouth quirks. “Oh no. Is Billy in trouble?”

“I dunno. I’m just glad there’s only a week of filming left. Operators and actors making eyes at one another… never ends well.”

“Right,” she says drily.

There’s a beat, and he realises the hole he’s walked right into. “Fuck. I didn’t mean—you and Russell always kept things professional on set, at least—”

“Stop digging,” she laughs. “It’s fine. Anyway, I think you have a point.”

“What?”

“Co-workers and romance. Best not to… mix…” She watches him for a reaction, but he continues packing up the gear without looking up.

“Yeah,” he says, to the floor. “I guess.”

* * *

“This is,” he says, receiving their shots of tequila at the bar, “the _weirdest_  fucking wrap party I’ve ever been to.”

 “Well, half the cast and crew are under twenty-one! What did you expect?”

“ _Not_ a Mexican restaurant,” he says, indicating their surrounds.

“Well, _I’m_ enjoying it,” she returns. “Much less… raucous than the usual.” He gives her a long look. “What?”

“I just—what was your b-plan?”

“For… what?”

“If the acting didn’t pan out.”

She blinks at the apparent non-sequitur. “What do you mean… the b-plan?”

“Huh.” He’s smiling. “I guess _that_ makes sense.”   

“No, I just meant—” She stops, sighs. “Teaching.”

He knocks back his tequila. “I can see that.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You’re bossy, you love the rules. Always think you’re the cleverest person in the room—”

“Oh, hey pot. Meet kettle,” she scoffs.

“I’m not a _rules_ person.”

“No, not… that part.” She huffs, not at all sure why he’s decided to get under her skin. “Well, what about you? What was you plan-b?”

“Oh.” He grimaces, tapping her shot down the bar to her hand. “For that you need a plan- _a_.”

“You didn’t always want to be a film maker?”

“I didn’t really know it was thing.” He shrugs, defensive. “I’m an old man, remember? Things were different then.”

“How much of it—?” she starts, but loses her nerve.

“What?”

“How much of it was real?”

“What – of _Sophie_?”

“Yeah.”

He shrugs again, discomforted. “I mean, the big beats were the same. Dad was mixed up in something stupid, got shot by some _picciotto._ Mom got scared. Took us to Italy for a summer to visit Aunt Laura and her daughter Sophie.”

“Picci…otto?” she says, mangling the word.

His smile twists. “A mob soldier,” he translates.    

“…Woah.”

“Yeah.” He catches her eye. “Don’t make that face.”

“What face?”

“All fucking… sympathetic. It was a long time ago. You don’t have to feel sorry for me.” 

“He was still your _Dad_ —”

“So? I don’t have a lot of fun happy memories of us together. He wasn’t _nice_.” He sighs, clearly feeling he’s said too much. “Look, don’t tell—”

“I won’t,” she says quickly. “I won’t.”

He pushes his empty shot glass away with a grimace. “I fucking hate tequila. Let’s go somewhere and get a proper drink.”


	8. Laura

**Sam**

She’s typing in his office when he enters. Using only two fingers; _painfully_ slow. She’s so absorbed in her task she hasn’t noticed him, frowning thoughtfully.

“My mother always said if the wind changed my face would stick like that.”

Her head snaps up and she smiles. His heart lurches, but feebly. It’s not that the feelings have gone _away_ exactly, more that they’ve transformed from something bubbling and hopeful into a heavy stone he carries in his chest. It’s fine, really. He knows the weight of disappointment and failure pretty well. Normally he’d be well on his way to bitter anger by now, but Ruth and Justine both expect him to be a better man than that. For reasons he can’t fathom, he’s yet to disappoint them. But it’s one day at time with him, and probably always will be.     

“She sounds like a wise lady,” Ruth returns. “I didn’t think you were in today?”

“Neither did I. I have something to show you.”

“Something that couldn’t wait until Tuesday?”

“Nope.”

He passes the envelope across the desk, sinking down into the dusty sofa to watch her read. First, she stills in shock. Blinking slowly, disbelieving. Re-reads; a smile creeping onto her face as she realises that, yes, the invitation is real. He struggled to believe the words himself when he first read them:

MISS WILDER, MISS BIAGI AND MR SYLVIA ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO JOIN THE INTERNATIONAL SHORT FILM SELECTION AT THE 1986 TAORMINA FILM FESTIVAL.

Her eyes find his now, shining with excitement. “ _How_ —?”

“I entered it. There’s a category for up-and-coming writers and directors, and there’s always a bent towards anyone of Sicilian heritage. Which Justine… technically is. Look, we probably won’t win—”

“Who _cares_ about winning? Just to be a _part_ of—” She chokes, blinking away tears.

“Alright, alright,” he says, awkward. “Don’t get hysterical.”

“Are you kidding? I could… jump over the gym about now!”

“Don’t,” he says, “please. We need you in one piece for Friday’s match.”

“Aren’t you excited?”

“Yeah, a little,” he lies. She knows him too well, that’s the trouble; raises a sceptical eyebrow until he makes an irritated noise and confesses. “It’s just been a long time. And the film is raking over shit that happened there and it all… feels like too big a coincidence somehow.” He looks at his feet for a moment, swallowing nervous. “I was going to go out for the week before. Drive around a bit so Justine can meet the family. See where we came from. You know?”

“I think that’s a great idea—”

“Will you come too?” he says suddenly, looking up. “Please?”

She squirms. “I don’t know, Sam… is it really appropriate for me to be there with all the family?”

He shrugs. “Well, Justine and I always get along better with a buffer. And she can’t drive so, you know, this wasn’t a totally selfless ask…”

Her expression clears and his heart leaves his mouth. She nods. “Okay. No, I— yeah.” She stops, tries again. “I mean, you know the place. And you speak the language. Who better to go and experience Italian culture with than—?”

“Oh, Jesus. Stop already, please. Don’t make me regret asking. And it’s Sicilian culture. Not Italian.”

She merely grins in return.

* * *

“Are you… okay?” asks Justine, concerned.  

“Fine. I’m fine.” He’s sat between the two of them, gripping the arm rests with white-knuckled hands as the plane taxis, eyes screwed tightly shut.

“He’s scared of flying,” Ruth mouths, probably thinking she’s being subtle. There’s always something of a stage-whisper about her clandestine moments.

“Yeah, no shit, Ruth,” he replies. “Are we up?”

“Uh, almost…”

He groans. He’s probably taken enough Valium to tranquilise an elephant, but right now it’s doing precisely _nothing_.

“Is this why you never went back?” asks Justine.

“It’s…part of it,” he admits. He risks opening an eye. She’s not laughing at him like he expects; she seems unperturbed. Unwinds her headphones and clicks on her Walkman, tinny guitar noise escaping into the cabin. “Is that it?”

She pulls the headphone up, irritable. “What?”

“I said, is that it? You’re just going to listen to music?”

“Yeah,” she replies, looking at him like he’s mad. “What else would I be doing?” She drops back into planet Punk, closing her eyes and leaning back against the headrest.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says to himself, “talking to me maybe? About the people we’re going to see?” He shakes his head. “Fucking unbelievable.” He glances at Ruth, smiling to herself as she reads the inflight magazine. “What are _you_ grinning about?”

“Hmm? Oh, I was just wondering… what it’s going to be like with even more of you.”

He sighs. “Well, in…” He makes a show of checking his watch. “… nineteen fucking hours I guess you’ll find out.”

She turns the page of her magazine primly. “Can’t wait.”

* * *

**Ruth**

She sits on her suitcase while he negotiates with the man at the car rental desk. A stream of words she can’t understand punctuated with the occasional _fuck_ she does. Eventually he returns, clutching keys and a paper map.

“You alright to navigate?” he says, anxious behind his aviators.

“Sure,” she says stoutly. It’s three am and she doesn’t speak the language, but she’s _definitely_ been in tighter spots.

She just can’t think of any of them right now.

Finding their rental Fiat in the parking lot is the first challenge, squeezing Justine and all their luggage into the back the second. He opens out the map for her. “They’re just outside of Cefalù,” he says, pointing to the name on the paper. “Keep the sea on the left and we should do okay.”

“How long do you think?”

He shrugs. “Not a fucking clue. Thirty years ago, on the back of a flatbed, it took me three hours. Apparently they’ve improved the road since then.”  

He pulls out of the parking lot, the aforementioned road mercifully quiet, given the hour. She chews her lip, holding the question in for as long as she can. “Didn’t they… want to send someone to the airport to meet you?”

“I told them not to.”

She nods. It figures, really. He’s always allergic to anyone offering help, however well-meaning. She knows that better than most…

“Hey,” he says, and she realises her head has started to nod. “Keep talking.”

“Sorry.”

“I’m tired too, alright? Don’t want to… fucking crash and kill us all.”

“… Thanks for that.” She rubs her eyes. “So, we’re staying with Aunt Laura?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Is she really your Aunt?”

“Nope. My mother’s best friend. Grew up here together.”

“What’s she like?”

He makes a face. “I don’t really know. When I was a kid she was… funny but mean.”

“Oh.”

“What?”

“Just, sounds familiar.”

“I’m not funny.”

“Maybe not on purpose…”

He shakes his head. “Why are you here again?”

“You invited me. As a buffer and co-pilot.”

“Doesn’t sound like me.”

She shrugs. “Well, you did.”

There is a glimmer of light out of the window now. Moonlight perhaps, reflecting on the waves. Or the first dawn rays breaking over the shadow of the hills on their right. A tendril of excitement uncurls in her stomach at the thought of the landscape proper being revealed, her first real sense of quite where they have ended up.

“Oh!” she says, as they flash past a road sign. “Cefalù. 20 miles.” 

“Kilometres.”

“Right! Right.”

“Okay. The last bit I’m going to have to do on memory…”

Her mouth drops open. “Really?”

“What?”

“Memory? From thirty years ago?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, lets hope they haven’t, you know, built anything new in the last three decades…”

He laughs. “Relax. And trust me. They won’t have.”

* * *

The road up to the farmhouse is barely more than a track, the Fiat bumping over dusty rocks to a background rumble of Sam’s favourite expletives. She understands now, his certainty that decades-old memories would be enough to find their way. Sunrise has revealed hillsides crowded with generations of terraces, row after row of gnarled olive trees; roots biting back into millennia of history.

They find level ground. A farmhouse. Something ancient at the core with rounded archways and a red-tiled roof. Modern extensions in concrete have sprouted off at angles, giving it a haphazard, organic feel.

“Yep,” says Sam, crunching to a halt. “This is it.” He pulls out a cigarette, tucking it behind his ear, a sure sign of his nerves. “Wake up, kid,” he adds to Justine, snoring lightly in the back. “We’re here.”

She unfolds from the car, nervous herself now. It seems strange there’s still no one around to meet them.

“They’ll be out in the fields already,” he says, reading her expression. “Come on. We’ll go find Laura…”

He leads them inside, into the oldest part of the house. She’s expecting darkness and old wood but the creamy stone reflects the morning light, casting everything in a golden glow.  

“Hey,” says Sam, cautiously, before remembering himself. “Uh, sono io. Sam? Sono qui con Justine…”

“Alla fine!” someone calls back. An elderly voice, cracked at the edges, but still loud. A woman shuffles into the kitchen from the pantry. She was probably quite tall once, and definitely beautiful. Sam blinks owlishly at the sight of her; presumably confronting thirty years of wear on a once familiar face. She does the same, almost wincing.

“Sei vecchio…” There are tears in her eyes as he approaches to kiss her. She takes his face in her hands instead, like she’s looking for something hidden in there. Sam doesn’t recoil or bat her away like Ruth expects. Just stares back, mouth a thin line, and she feels like an intruder on something she cannot _possibly_ understand—

“What’s happening?” says Justine, out of the corner of her mouth.

“I… have no idea.”

Sam hears them at least. He touches the old woman’s hands briefly and she releases him. He sniffs, pulling himself together. “Uh, Justine, Ruth,” he says, “this is… this is Aunt Laura.”  



	9. Dull People

**Sam**

He’s drifting in that grey space between dreaming and awake. The mingled smell of lavender and wood polish is a portal, a time machine dragging him back.

_Sophie is sitting by the window, dark hair framing her face. “Can you see the stars, Sam?” she says. “I hoped there would be stars.”_

“I’m sorry—” he says, in the real world as well as in the dream. His own voice wakes him from fitful sleep.

It takes a moment for him to work out exactly where and when he is. This room was his mother’s, for one long hot summer, a lifetime ago. Ruth and Justine are sleeping next door in the room he once shared with Charlie.

He sighs. All this shit he thought he’d buried, thirty years ago. Maybe that’s the problem. Now he’s uncovering it again he finds grief still raw and unprocessed. Left untouched, the memories are still sharp enough to stab him in the heart.

It’s early afternoon. Even with the curtains drawn he can tell the sun is fierce, tiny cracks of light enough to illuminate every rising mote of dust. He pulls on his jeans and goes to find Laura.

She’s in the kitchen, preparing tonight’s dinner. He doesn’t say anything, padding in to the room on bare feet. Doesn’t need to. She points to a plate of tomatoes that need chopping for salad; he takes up a knife and gets to work.

“You always liked being in my kitchen,” she says after a while.

“I like cooking.”

“I know. I thought it would help make you a good husband, one day.”

He smiles, sardonic. “I turned out to lack some other key qualities. But I _am_ grateful you taught me to cook.”  

“How are Ruth and Justine?”

“Still sleeping.”

She makes a noise of dissent. “We should wake them. Otherwise they will be all out of time.”

“Jet lagged,” he says.

She waves a hand, dismissive. “Whatever you call it.”

“I’ll do it in a minute.”

More silence, broken only by the sound of steel on wood. “There is something you should know about this evening,” Laura says eventually.

His knife stills. “Oh shit,” he says, earning himself a reproving scowl for the bad language. “Sounds serious.”

“It’s about Alfredo.”

He blinks. “Alfredo… Sylvia?” He has to check.

“Yes,” she says, not looking at him.

Her grandson. His nephew. And, as far as Sam is concerned, dead, dead, _long_ since dead like all the rest of them. So why does he feel like—?

“He’s coming to dinner.”

He puts his knife down, very carefully. “What the _fuck_ do you mean?”

She makes a tutting noise. “I don’t like such language—”

“I don’t fucking care! How can _Alfredo_ be coming for _fucking dinner!_ You told Sophia he died at birth! _”_

“To spare her pain. He was adopted. A few years ago, he wrote us a letter—”

“I don’t _believe_ this. This is some… twisted fucking bullshit!”

Laura slams down her chopping board, making him flinch. “She was my _daughter_! She left her home to join your family and came back to me to die!”

He gapes at her. “It _wasn’t_ … There wasn’t anything anyone…”

“You can tell me Charlie was a good husband to her? That it was all just bad _luck_ —?”

“Is everything… okay?” interrupts a familiar voice from the doorway. Ruth, not understanding a word of their argument; not needing to.

“No,” he says, in English, “everything is very fucking _not_ okay.” He shakes his head at the now-silent Laura, who has picked up her knife again, as if nothing has happened, and storms out of the room.

Ruth is dragged along in his wake. “What… happened?” she tries, following him all the way back, watching him pull on his boots. “Sam? Sam?”

“Ruth,” he says, voice dangerously low. “Right now, I really need you to _leave me the fuck alone_.”

“I—” Her mouth opens and closes, hurt tears briefly pricking her eyes. It’s been a while since she’s been on the receiving end of his temper like this. But this is Ruth. Always a sucker for more punishment, and never one to just do as he tells her. “Look, it’s family,” she tries. “They make everybody crazy—”

“Oh, no, this is _actually_ fucking crazy,” he snaps back. “This is some next level shit. Alright? And I don’t—I don’t… I don’t know what the fuck to do.”

“I know,” she says. “So, _talk_ to me. Tell me what happened.”

He fumbles out a cigarette, hand shaking. Manages to light the thing, breathing deep. “I can’t—” he tries again; but looking at her stricken face he sees the truth. No amount of blow and bourbon could blot this out, even if he had any. Maybe the time has come to try something new. He takes another deep drag on his cigarette. “This is going to sound insane,” he warns.

She nods, visibly steeling herself.

“My brother’s kid is…” He struggles to find the right word. “…here.”

She blinks. “But, I thought he didn’t survive—?”

“Nope. Apparently not. Given away at birth for adoption.”

She covers her mouth with her hand, shocked. “ _What_?”

“Told you,” he says, bizarrely triumphant. “Fucking _crazy_.”

“And they didn’t tell you? In thirty _years_?”

“It’s not—” He shakes his head. He doesn’t care about that part. The length of the deception doesn’t matter – and would it have changed anything, really? He doubts he would have been selfless enough to do much about it, if the truth had come out. Maybe write a few letters, but even that might have been beyond him, if he’s honest. “I don’t care about them lying to me. Fuck, I’d probably have agreed with the decision. I was nineteen, I couldn’t have looked after their kid. I barely manage my own right now.”

“So…?”

“So, Sophie _died_ thinking their son didn’t make it. I was here when she passed, Ruth. The… thing in her head had her all messed up for sure, but she was… so fucking _sad._ ”

_Can you see the stars, Sam?_

“You think, if she’d have known…?” she says hesitantly, bringing him back to the present.

“It might have bought her some peace.”

“Fuck,” she says, softly. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

“Yeah.” He sits down on his bed, his rage subsiding now, a curiously leaden feeling taking its place. After a moment she comes and sits next to him, watching him carefully.

“What do you want to do?”

“What?”

“We could go and find a hotel,” she suggests, “if you don’t want to stay?”    

“No, I—” It’s odd, but the thought of leaving now is even worse than staying. “No. I think I should… see this thing through. No more secrets. Right?”

She nods. “Yeah. I mean, it’s just one more cousin, right? They didn’t know about Justine. You didn’t know about…”

“Alfredo,” he prompts. “Jesus Christ.” A thought occurs. “Is _your_ family anything like—?”

“Oh, no,” she says, firmly. “No. We’re… dull people, really. I’m basically the black sheep.”

“Huh.” His mouth turns up at the corners slightly. “Really? You? You’re the black sheep?”

“Yup.”

He shakes his head. “Must be nice.”

She shrugs. “I mean, it doesn’t make for award-winning screenplays…”

He laughs. “I guess not.” His hand finds hers for a moment, squeezing her fingers. “Thanks,” he chokes out, never an easy word for him.  

She squeezes back, giving him a smile. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s go… take a walk or something.”

“Alright,” he says, pulling her to her feet. “I think I can remember a good one, along the hill...”


	10. Electric Blue

**Sam**

When they crest the first ridge the bay is revealed beneath them, blue sea sparkling under cloudless skies. It’s postcard perfect.

“I should have bought my camera,” Ruth says, wistful.

He shrugs. “It’ll still be there tomorrow.” And the day after that, and the day after that. He’s pissed away years since he last climbed this hill, and very little here has changed. He’s not sure if that’s reassuring or deeply depressing.

Like most things with him, it could go either way.

The olive trees thin out as they climb, a bald crown to the hill. At the very top is a cairn, little more than a rough pile of rocks. Ancient looking. He sits in the shade on the leeward side with a sigh and closes his eyes for a moment.

They came here together, right at the very end. One of her last good days; if you could call them that. Baby-bird fragile and half her hair fallen out, but she’d smiled at him when they reached the cairn, her old self again. For a little while.

He remembers the row afterwards, too, when they found out he’d taken her so far from the house. _What if she’d fallen? What if she’d had another fit?_

 _It’s all over anyway_ , he’d wanted to say. _Why not let her have her time in the sun_?

Fingers trace an aimless pattern in the gritty dirt at the base of the stones. They were almost gone from the world. Just a memory in the head of an old man who doesn’t like to look back; the grief of a bereaved mother. Now, there are chapters after. A living, breathing testament to Sophie and Charlie together that moves through the world.

And a fucking film, of course.

He opens his eyes to see Ruth, shading her face from the sun, looking down into the valley. Sweaty from the climb, already sun-burnt, and dressed in a boyish shirt and shorts that don’t flatter her at all. And _still_ she makes his chest ache with longing.

He knows what’s in her head at least. Perhaps that can be enough.

“It’s not expensive to shoot out here,” he says, finding his feet. “But I hear the locals can be tricky.”

Her nose wrinkles. “How’d you know I was thinking about filming?”  

“Oh, you know,” he says. “...I’ve met you.”

* * *

**Ruth**

“So, you never knew Sam?”

“Well, I knew _of_ him,” Justine is saying to her cousin. “But he didn’t know I existed. We didn’t meet until last year.”

“That must have been very hard.”

“I guess. I mean, it must have been kind of the same for you?”

“My parents were very honest with me,” Alfredo replies. “They told me I was adopted from the beginning. Perhaps because my birth parents had died.”

“Yeah, that makes sense…”

“You know,” says Ruth, in an undertone, “you _could_ talk to him some more.”

They are walking a few paces behind, wind already nibbling away their footprints in the dry sand. Sam is carrying a cooler, she has the beach umbrella.

“No,” he says, “I’m good. Glad he’s had a nice life, you know? Sounds like it was better than what he’d have got with his actual parents—”

“Sam!”

“What?” he says. “You didn’t know them.”

She opens her mouth to argue, closes it again. He has a point. She changes the subject instead. “Am I still okay to take the car this afternoon? There’s a museum I really want to see—”

“Yeah, yeah, you can do whatever,” he says dismissive.

“Good.” She looks up and down the shore. “Where are we going, by the way?”

He gives her a look. “Wherever the fuck we like?” He indicates the empty beach. 

“Okay, well, how about… _here_!” She thrusts the parasol spike down into the sand. It doesn’t quite go the way she plans. The umbrella stands for a triumphant moment and then slowly falls over sideways.

“Jesus Christ.” He shakes his head, putting down the cooler, and helps her to fix it upright.

“Sand’s… dry,” she tries to explain.

“I know. I’m not an idiot.”

Parasol in place, he drags his shirt unceremoniously over his head. For a second she’s achingly _aware_ of him, his body in space. The feeling catches her off guard like it always does, swiftly followed by a vague guilt. For him at least she knows that part of their relationship is over. He’s always careful to put safe distance between them if she sits too close; to ignore any clumsy attempt at asking-without-asking what his feelings might be, until she’s stopped trying.

She looks at her feet. “I think I’ll go for a swim,” she says, “… cool off.”

He fishes out his cigarettes from the pocket of his shorts, lighting up and lying back in the warm sand. “Have fun,” he says, closing his eyes.

“I will,” she says sadly.

* * *

 

She wanders over to the wave-cut platform at the foot of the cliffs when she tires of swimming. Ostensibly to give the newfound family more time alone to talk, although Sam is passed out snoring on the sand, and the arrival of some of the younger cousins has distracted Justine. 

She potters about amongst the shallow pools, humming to herself. Exploring the cathedralic vaults in the limestone cliffs, hollowed out by the persistent sea—

“Wanna see something cool?”

She jumps in shock at his voice, echoing out of the rock like some ancient oracle. “Where _are_ you?”

“Follow the cliff round.”

She does as instructed, having to climb the rock face to avoid falling into a deeper pool. She inches around the corner, into a cave. There’s a shallow beach at the far end, where Sam is sitting, grinning. He tilts his head at her, as she tries to find a handhold to bring her inside the cave proper.

“Might be easier to swim,” he suggests drily. 

“Oh,” she says. “I wasn’t sure if it was safe...”

He raises his eyebrows. “Than rock-climbing?” 

“Okay,” she says, peevishly. “You’ve made your point.”

_-made-your-point_

_-made-your-point_

Echoes sing back at her. “Woah!”

_-woah!_

_-woah!_

_-woah!_

“It’s about five feet deep where you are,” he says, wading towards her. “Just drop.”

She splashes into the water, swallowing a mouthful of salt; and comes up spluttering.

“You alright?” His hands graze her elbows in case she’s about to go under again.

“Fine,” she coughs, finding her feet. “It just… went up my nose.”

“Mmm.” He waits until she has her breath back. “There’s a grotto here.”

“A—what?”

“A grotto. Like at Taormina? This one’s smaller but, you know, we get it to ourselves.”

She’s still nonplussed; grottos making her think more of Santa Claus than Mediterranean sun. “What are you—? Where?”

“Can you hold your breath?”

She folds her arms. “For longer than _you_ can, mister twenty-five a day.”

“Alright, alright. It’s a short tunnel. Don't try to swim. Just pull yourself through. Okay?”

“What?” she says, “No—”

But he’s already submerged, a kaleidoscopic outline of himself moving across the bottom of the pool towards the wall, where he disappears. Intrigued, she ducks her head under the water, just in time to see his feet disappearing into a tunnel.

She breaks the surface once more, filling her lungs, and follows him.

He’s waiting for her on the other side, grabbing her arm and pulling her up to the surface. He’s just tall enough to stand; acting as her anchor point so she doesn’t have to tread water to take in the unearthly space on the other side.

Everything is electric blue. Somewhere sunlight must be getting in to the cave, reflecting the colour of the water. “It’s like—” she starts, but realises she doesn’t have any point of comparison.

 “—dropping acid,” he finishes, like _that’s_ an obvious conclusion.

“Right,” she smiles, shaking her head. He misses the sarcasm, watching the lights play on the ceiling with a rare smile on his face. 

Her leg brushes against his under the water. Some trick of physics, of fluid motion, is drawing them together. He looks down from the refracting patterns, at her face. His grip shifts, hands finding her waist as she puts her arms around his neck. Bodies held against each other, like they’re dancing. She's holding her breath as he closes his eyes, and slow but inexorable moves to find her mouth with his—

There is a splashing noise. They let go of one another so quickly she bobs briefly under the water again, surfacing at the same time as Justine, Alfredo, and two of the other cousins she _thinks_ might be called Paulo and Martina emerge from the tunnel.

“Oh my God,” says Justine, staring open-mouthed at the spectacle. “This is amazing…” She remembers herself. “Uh, we came to ask if we can get dropped off at Uncle Antonio’s farm when you head back for the museum?”

“Right,” Ruth hears herself saying, a tad breathless. “The museum. We should… we should be getting back to get cleaned up for that. Right?”  

“Right,” he agrees, not quite able to meet her eyes.  


	11. Come Clean

**Sam**

There’s a shared bathroom between their two rooms. He sits on his bed looking at his own worried reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Waiting to hear the click of the lock on his side; the sound of running water. His hair is stiff with salt, quiffed almost like one of Justine’s punk rock heroes, and he’s covered in sand.

He taps his fingers on his knees. Fuck it. Maybe Ruth is patiently waiting for _him_ to take the first shower on the other side. A cold one, presumably. He pushes open his door—

—as she opens hers at the same time, fluffy towel over her arm. Still dressed in her swimming clothes.

He stares at her, squinting slightly without his glasses. She’s all eyes in her face. He can’t quite fathom why, when most of the time they’re finish-each-other’s-sentences synchronised, moments like this are so fucking difficult. Hasn’t a clue if she’s waiting for him to relinquish the shower, or order her out, or… something else.

Very gently she pushes the door shut behind her, turns the lock. Whatever happens next, it’s just the two of them.

He crosses to her, takes her face in both his hands, and kisses her.

Everything tastes of salt and gritty sand, and he couldn’t give less of a fuck. His mouth is pressed against hers so hard it almost hurts; like the world’s going to end if they stop. Her fists, balled in his shirt, are gripping him so tightly he’s half strangled by his collar. He tries to break the kiss for a moment, but loses himself again to the feel of her cheek against his...

He manages on a second attempt to pull back enough to meet her eyes. Pupils blown, face flushed pink. “You, um, you still want a shower?” he says.  

She blinks, realising quite what he’s asking. “Yeah,” she breathes. Nervous at first, but nodding.  

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hm.”

Undressing goes slower than it might between kisses. She pulls off his shirt; he removes her bikini. His mouth slips to her neck, hands running over her body, brushing some of the sand from her skin.  

She reaches backwards and turns on the shower, taking his hand and pulling him under the hot water. Smooths back his hair; grabbing for the soap to help wash out the salt. Her hands make him slippery with suds, moving over his chest, his back; brushing his cock and making him groan.

He follows her lead, rubbing soap into her head somewhat inexpertly, but she doesn’t seem to care. Moving down her body; daring to cup her breasts, trace the curve of her hip-bone. Pulling her in close to kiss again under the spray, letting it rinse them both clean—

Without warning the temperature goes from pleasantly warm to freezing cold. The shock of it is like a physical blow and they both flinch away, instinctive.  

“ _Fuck_!”

He fumbles for the tap, turning off the now icy stream. There is a moment of gasping recovery, both laughing at the absurdity of it all, their skin made gooseflesh. He grabs for a towel as they step out of the shower, wrapping it around her, rubbing her shoulders to help warm her back up.  She leans up to kiss him again, putting arms around his neck; his erection pressed into her stomach. He’d hoist her up to fuck her there and then if he could, but there’s a lack of convenient surfaces. Or walls.

He carries her into his room instead, depositing her onto the bed. Instinct means she lands like a wrestler, with the clunking of an elderly bedframe replacing the usual rattle of wood and steel. He kisses his way from hip to jaw, enjoying the way she arches into his face. He nudges her knees apart with his own—

Her hand against his chest stills him for moment. She bites her lip, and for a moment he thinks—

“Say something… in Italian to me?” she asks, almost apologetic. 

“Oh,” he manages. He was expecting rejection rather than romance. “Uh. How about… y _ou are very beautiful. And very strange. And I’ve been in love with you for far too fucking long_.”

“What does it mean?”

He _really_ should have seen that coming.

“It means,” he says, “that you are very beautiful.” He kisses her collar bone. “And very strange.” She laughs at that, as he noses along her earlobe. “And that I… would like to fuck you.” Not the whole truth perhaps, but hardly a lie.

“Oh,” she breathes. “Yes.”

* * *

She lies tangled with him afterwards, propped on one elbow. Fingers tracing idly through the hair on his chest while he smokes a cigarette. He hopes she’s not about to announce her intention to go to the fucking museum now, because they’ve got a whole afternoon they can spend here without raising any suspicions, and he’d like to spend every _second_ of it naked with her.

“I… didn’t think you wanted this,” she says, after a while.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No! No. I mean, right after in Vegas I thought maybe… But then you were always so careful to-to make _room_ —”

“—because I didn’t think _you_ wanted to.”

She puts her head down on his shoulder. “Why are we so _bad_ at this?”

He presses a kiss to her hair, still damp from their shower. “I mean, I actually think we’re pretty _good_ at this. You know. For the record—”

She punches him lightly. It might be the first time a woman’s _ever_ done that to him in bed, and maybe that is part of their answer. “I didn’t mean the _sex_.”

“I know, I know.” He stubs out his cigarette, pulling her properly into his arms. “Look… I have a pretty shitty history with women. Eventually everyone I care about… seems to go away. And I don’t want you to go away.”

It’s about as close as he can come to an _I love you_ , at least in a language they both understand. She snorts with laughter, which really wasn’t his intended effect. “Except when I _annoy_ you—”

“No, no. Even then.”

“Hmm.” She smooths down his moustache with her thumb, which he finds weirdly arousing. But then everything’s fucking back-to-front with Ruth, and always has been. “I, um, I think the museum might be a bust,” she says sadly.  

“Oh, thank _God_ ,” he growls, before she claims his mouth again.


	12. Pops

**Ruth**

“Sam?”

He opens his eyes, a second of blinking confusion as his brain puts the pieces together again. “Yeah.”

“Um. I didn’t want to… just leave. You know, without…”

“What? Saying goodbye?”

She hesitates, less sure now that she’s done the right thing. There’s no tenderness in his voice and his customary scowl is back in place. Perhaps he’d have preferred her to simply slip away, and go back to pretending—

Something softens in his expression. “Look, I don’t want you to go,” he says.

“I-I know. I don’t want to either, but—”

He kisses her stuttering mouth. And it’s tempting to give in to the pressure, to lie back down with him and forget the rest of the world for just a little while longer. But Justine _will_ be back soon, and she’s not ready to try and explain this to anyone else. She needs to find some clothes, brush out her bird’s nest hair.

“Mmph,” she manages, pulling herself away. “I can… I mean, we can—”

“We can _what_?”

She blinks. “See each other again.” The words come out in a rush. “If—if this isn’t just a one-time thing for you.”

He presses his lips together, frown deepening, like she’s asked him to give the solution for world peace rather than a simple question about his intentions. “… It’s not.”

She’s shocked at the spreading relief she feels at those words. “Oh.” Her voice sounds about an octave higher than usual. “Good.”

They stare at one another some more.

“This,” he says, raising his eyebrows, “this isn’t _going_. Just to be clear.”

“I know, I know—”

He kisses her again, gentle this time. “Go find clothes. And then we should help Laura with the dinner prep for fifty fucking people, anyway...”

* * *

**Sam**

“Hey Pops,” Justine says.

He looks up from ladling tomatoes onto this plate, scowling puzzled. “What happened to Sam?”

Her smile falters slightly. “Sorry. If you don’t like it—”

“I didn’t say that. Just, wondering what caused the change of heart.”

She shrugs, uncomfortable. “Nothing really… Just Paulo said it’s pretty disrespectful here. And I didn’t want anyone thinking…”

“Thinking _what_?”

“Oh, forget it already—”

“No, no; I think we should really dig into this newfound respect thing you’ve encountered.”

She catches his eyes, realising he’s teasing. “ _God_ , you’re annoying.” 

“Mm. I think that’s in the Dad job description though, right?”

They take a seat at the long table together, under the evening sky. “Yeah, along with hair-loss and being really fucking boring. How _was_ the museum, by the way?”

“Dull,” he says, skewering a tomato on his fork and resisting the urge to smooth down his hair. “But, you know, I figured I owed Ruth after the shit that went down yesterday…”

“Right.”

He thinks he detects a hint of sarcasm. “ _What_?”

“Nothing, nothing…”

He scowls, but bites into the tomato rather than risk a row over what is fundamentally a tissue of lies.  

“So,” she says, when they’ve finished eating, “I was wondering if I could go into Cefalù tomorrow…”

“Why?” Her casual tone is fooling no one.

“Um. I want to look for an outfit for Saturday’s ceremony.”

He sits back in his chair, fishing out his cigarettes. “Don’t you have a dress already?”

She huffs. “You know I fucking hate wearing a dress. And Alfredo said he’d let me look at the stock room—”

“Wait, what? What’s _Alfredo_ got to do with a new outfit?”

“Um, he’s a tailor,” she says, looking at him like he’s just dropped in from Planet Idiot. “Did you _miss_ that bit of the whole long-lost-relative catch up? What he does for a living?”

“… Maybe,” he admits, sulkily.

“Well, that’s what he does,” she continues, rolling her eyes. “He’s said he’ll fix your jacket, too, if you’d like.”

“It doesn’t need fixing… There’s nothing to _fix_.”

“Are you kidding me? It looks like you’ve used it as a net for catching moths.”

“Well, that jacket’s probably older than you are—”

“ _Not_ exactly helping your case…”   

“Shut up.” He drums his fingers on the table for a moment, considering. “Fine. I’ll drive you into town.”

“Thanks,” she says.

“Don’t thank me. I’m taking the money for the outfit out of your allowance.”

“…Since when do I have an _allowance_?”

“Since now.”

“How much?”

“I don’t fucking know. I haven’t decided yet. But, you know, less. For asking that question.”

“Gee. Thanks Pops.”

“Anytime, kid,” he says. “Anytime.”

* * *

He finds Ruth in the kitchen, dutifully scrubbing pots and pans.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says.

“Oh, no, it’s fine—”

“No, I mean, there’s like a chores hierarchy. Leave it for the kids.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Thought you might want to come for walk, anyway.”

She smiles. “Sure. I might just need to go and change into some sturdier shoes...”

“Oh, me too actually.”

They make it to his bedroom before falling into one another’s arms, but only just.

“Mmf. We’ve got at least… half an hour before Justine comes back,” he manages to say, against her mouth.

She’s already unbuttoning his shirt. “Mm-hm.”

“She wants to go into town tomorrow to buy— oh, _fuck._ ” Her hand has slipped under the waistband of his jeans, and outlining any future plans can _wait_ , he decides.

* * *

He shifts his weight, uncomfortable, as Alfredo puts another pin into the jacket cuff. “You can really have this done by tomorrow?” he says.

His nephew nods. “It’s not a major alteration. Just personal tailoring.”  

“Well… thanks. We appreciate it.”

“It’s nothing. We’re family, after all.”

“Yeah.” There’s no denying it; the dressing room mirror reflecting the same distinctive jaw-line in profile. “Look… I’m sorry we didn’t meet sooner.”

“I understand. You didn’t know I existed. Like Justine.”

There’s something mildly accusatory in that. “I didn’t, you know, set out to make a habit of it. In both cases someone decided to miss me on the fucking memo.”

Alfredo digests this. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Sam sighs. “I get it. I mean, I could have come to visit a lot sooner. Laura might have told me earlier if I’d been here in person.”

“You will come back again?”

“I’m not sure,” he says, honestly. “I don’t like flying.”

Alfredo nods. “I have… questions.”

“About your parents?”

“My birth parents,” he says. “Yes. If I watch your film… am I going to see what they were like?”

Sam shakes his head. “Sorry, kid. It’s based on how they met, but it’s all fiction.”

“I… expected as much.” But hoped for different, that much is clear.

“Look,” he says, awkward. “It was all a long time ago. And a lot of it was… not great. But if you really want to know more about them, I can tell you.”

“Really?”

“Sure,” he says, looking out into the stock room, where Justine is gleefully gathering clothes. “Least I can do.”


	13. Cloudburst

**Ruth**

“Okay,” he says, “this’ll do. Pull in here.”

“Really?” It’s a layby on a stretch of dusty road winding between the hills, seemingly the same as a dozen others they’ve driven past.

“Yeah. Trust me.”

She’s starting to, which is dangerous. Does as he instructs, following him as he steps out of the car and into the field behind. “Now what?” 

“We’re going to take a little walk.” He produces a length of fabric from his pocket, a trophy of the morning’s expedition with Justine. “And, uh, you should put this on…”

“What? Where?”  

“Like a blindfold.” He catches her expression. “Oh, come on. You think I’ll let you fall over?”

“Not _intentionally_.”

“Alright, fine,” he huffs. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

She sighs. For all his good intentions, she’s not sure she entirely trusts his judgement when it comes to keeping her safe. But even his most hairbrained schemes do tend towards the interesting. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

He ties the blindfold around her eyes. And it’s frankly worrying, the way her body responds now to the brush of his fingers on the nape of her neck; the spike of arousal that thrums pleasantly through her.

“Alright,” he says, taking hold of her arm, like he did when she was still hopping around in plaster. “Just a few steps this way.”

The fabric isn’t thick enough to completely obscure her vision; she can make out where the ground and the sky are in light and shadow, as he leads them up the hill. “O-kay,” he says. “Put your hand out behind you, there’s a rock you can sit down on.”

“Can’t I take off the blindfold now?” she smiles, finding the seat.

“No, no,” he says, “just give it… a minute.”

“I feel like an idiot.”

“Well, you look like one,” he agrees, “but it’ll be worth it.” He twitches the blindfold off.

She blinks owlishly, clearing her vision. The sea twinkles under a greying sky; gathering haze and humidity suggest a coming storm. Between sea and sky the amphitheatre opens like a flower, shafts of afternoon sun picking out the shapes of weathered arches and columns behind the stage. There are people moving back and forth; she can just make them out at this distance. Technical crew, throwing cables to one another, setting up for the festival. All under the shadow of the restless volcano.

It might be the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.

“Told ya it was worth it,” he says, at her side. “Oh, God. Don’t tell me you’re crying?”

She wipes her watering eyes on the blindfold, sniffing. “Is that a… picnic basket?”  

“What?” His surprise is unconvincing given he carried the wicker hamper up the hill. “Oh. Yeah.”

That anxious face again: mouth a thin line under his moustache, worried eyes on hers until he loses his nerve. He lights up a cigarette, smoking distractedly; she roots about in the basket, finding a bottle of coke to sip—

“Just _say_ it,” he bursts out, after a hotly self-conscious minute of not-looking-at-each-other.

But it’s hard to articulate, her mouth flapping while she tries to find words. “I just… I don’t expect things like this. It’s… _romantic_.” She says the word with the same inflection as _confusing._  

“So?”

“So, is that what you want now?”

A pause. “Yeah,” he says, almost sadly. Like he’s admitting weakness. “I like you. I like working with you, I like just… being around you. Everything’s less shitty. I mean, don’t get me wrong — it’s more confusing and frustrating too. But you’re the first person in a really long time that isn’t drowning me in order to save themselves. You know? It’s like… being on the lifeboat together. Does that make sense?”

She nods. “It does." 

"But...?"

"But I’m scared you might push me off one day.”

He laughs without humour. “Well, me too. Trusting people. Not really my thing.”

“Right. And I’m… not that good at romantic.”

“I know. I’m not either.”

She smiles at this, in spite of herself. “Have you _seen_ where we are right now?”

“This is good?”

“Yeah,” she says, taking his hand. “This is good.”  

He runs his thumb over her knuckles for a moment, before leaning in to kiss her softly. “How about now?”

“Better,” she whispers, forehead pressed against his—

Thunder rumbles in the distance. “Shit. Storm’s coming in.”

“We should probably get off the hill…”

“Right!”

The rain hits as they reach the car, a torrential curtain that soaks them to the skin even in the time it takes to unlock the Fiat. Gasping, she slides into the driver’s seat, as he slams shut the passenger door. Raindrops drum on the metal roof; condensation already starting to fog the windows, the lenses of his glasses.

“Well,” he says, taking them off, “so much for _that_ idea—”

Her kiss cuts him off. “This is good also,” she manages, when they break for air.

“No shit.” He ratchets his seat back, so she can climb into his lap, as another booming crack of thunder shakes the car.

* * *

They eat the sandwiches together afterwards, curled up together in the passenger seat. Her head tucked under his chin; his arm draped over her stomach, thumb stroking absently over her ribs.

“So,” she says, swallowing. “What are our chances of being arrested for public indecency right now?”

The sound of rain pattering on the roof fills the silence as he contemplates his answer, the storm passing on overhead. “Hmm. Hopefully none.”

She laughs, taking another bite of her sandwich. “Wanna bet on it?”

“Given our luck?" He shakes his head. "I don’t think so.”  


	14. Preparations

**Sam**

“Holy shit,” says Justine, as they pull up to the front of the hotel. “Is this for real?”

“Yep,” he replies, “this is us.”

“Pretty fancy,” Ruth observes from the back seat, craning her neck to peer up. He clears his throat. “Oh, right!” she says, subtle as a brick. “I’ll just… go get us checked in.”

She slips outside, leaving father and daughter in the car. Justine turns suspicious eyes on him. “Well this seems ominous.”

He grits his teeth. “I just wanted a chance to talk about tonight. Don’t – don’t wander off. Okay?”

“I wasn’t _going_ to—”

“No, no. You’re not hearing what I’m saying. After the ceremony I want you to stick with me, or with Ruth, or in rooms with lots of people. Understand?”

She rolls her eyes. “What, in case a creepy guy old enough to be my Dad decides to come on to me?”

He deserves this white-hot shame, he knows. “Exactly,” he says. “I don’t want to – I don’t what that to happen to you—”

“What, again?”

“Look, I’m not going to fucking defend what I did; I know it was wrong. But there are guys out there worse than me, alright? You’re pretty and you’re talented, and there are people—”

“I know, that will try to take advantage of that. Appreciate the fatherly concern but it’s a little late. I know how to handle myself.”

Perhaps this is time travel too. A daughter so very like himself at seventeen, quite sure he’d got the whole world figured out. Thirty plus years of being hammered on the anvil of life and he’s still the fucking same. Their folded arms and crooked smiles are a twisted mirror: genetics has a lot to answer for.

He bites down the snarling reply that will always, always be his first instinct and tries cunning instead. “I know you’re not an idiot. Don’t treat me like one. I’ve been around this block a few times before, I know what I’m talking about.”

“ _Fine_. I’ll stick with you.” She shakes her head. “That’s if you and Ruth can keep your hands off each other long enough to stay in the fucking room...”

His stomach drops. “ _What_?”

“Don’t try to lie. I know you guys have been having se—”

“You _know_?” he cuts in, before she can finish the sentence. “How?”

She rolls her eyes hugely. “Jesus. How do you think? You’re not exactly subtle. How many times have you gone ‘walking’ together since we got here?” She even makes the air quotes with her fingers.

“Fuck,” he manages, stunned.

Justine shrugs. “I mean, I think it’s a good thing. You’ve liked each other for a long time, right?”

He’s still marvelling at the speed at which this situation has pivoted around on him. Maybe she’s right, maybe she really _does_ have the world all figured out. “Yeah,” he hears himself saying. “I guess.”

“So, we done?”

“Yup.” He remembers himself as she moves to open the door, catching her sleeve. “Don’t – don’t say anything—”

“I won’t,” she says, grinning. “Not an idiot, remember?”

“Well, that makes one of us, at least,” he says to the steering wheel, before following her inside.

* * *

It’s quiet, considering how busy the hotel is. No sounds of laughter drifting up from the pool, no voices down the corridor. He imagines most of the other guests are cloistered away, thinking about tonight’s opening speeches and ceremonies. Conducting whatever arcane rituals of good luck or good looks they need to be able to offer themselves up for exposure.

His usual red-carpet preparation consists of doing a fuck-tonne of blow. Simple and effective. But he didn’t risk carrying through the airport; isn’t too sure of his stock with the usual suspects who might let him score a line. It’s been a long time since he came to one of these events, since he’s been welcome at one if he’s honest.

It doesn’t really matter. He’s substituted the dopamine kick of magic powder for the thrill of sex with Ruth. “Oh, _fuck_ ,” she says, winding fingers into his hair almost painfully, as his mouth moves between her legs.

And everything about her is contrary. No other actress he’s been with would let him anywhere _near_ in the hours before a red-carpet. Afterwards, in the haze of celebration and champagne, perhaps. But she’s in his bed _now_ , at two in the afternoon. Dragging him up to kiss her mouth again. Fucking him eyes open, until she comes with his name on her lips and he is instantly undone.

She stays wrapped in the sheets with him. “Are you falling asleep?”

“No,” he says, shutting his eyes and pulling her close against him. “Definitely not.”

“Oh, good,” she manages, stifling her own yawn, “… me neither.”

* * *

“What the fuck happened to your _dress_?”

Justine shrugs. “I told you, I hate wearing dresses. Alfredo fixed this for me.” Tailored black pants and shirt, a golden waistcoat thrown over the ensemble. It’s a _look_ , to be fair, but he still shakes his head.

“Your mother is going to fucking kill me.”

“What else is new?”

He sighs and checks his watch rather than reply, time now growing short...

And Ruth sweeps out of the lobby, right on cue.

“Wow,” he says, and means it.

“It’s not too much?” she checks, anxious expression familiar even under the façade of her make-up. “Jenny made it for me based on something Princess Diana wore.”

“It’s a red carpet. Nothing’s too _much._ ” 

“I just—”

“You look great.”

“Really?” Her nose wrinkles, like she can’t quite believe the compliment.

“Really.”

She smiles. “Well, I like your velvet jacket.”

“Oh, please—”

“No, I mean it. You look… very pretty.”

He catches Justine’s eye over Ruth’s shoulder, as she pretends to retch. He shakes his head, their limousine pulling up before things can get truly awkward. They pile in the back together.

“You’re nervous,” Justine observes.

“Yeah, I’m nervous,” he agrees, rubbing his knees. “It’s been a while.”

“It’s just cameras, right?”

“Maybe some spectators too. Ruth should go first. Then you. I’ll join you up at the gate.” The car crunches to a halt. “Ready?”

Ruth nods, clearly steeling herself. The car door is opened, the noise from the gathered crowd suddenly, shockingly filling their space. Shoulders squared like she’s entering the wrestling ring, she steps out.

Justine’s face has blanched. “I didn’t think it would be this much.”

“I know. I’ll be right behind you, kid,” he reassures. “Just walk towards Ruth. Ready?”

“No,” she gulps, but steps out into the limelight anyway. He counts to twenty slowly in his head. It’s not the crowds that worry him, it’s the _indifference_. He’s been out in the cold for a long time, passing from interesting-if-niche _auteur_ to washed-up derivative hack.

Fuck it, he tells himself, and slides out of his seat. It’s only a few paces from the drop-off zone onto the red carpet proper. He can see Ruth and Justine, posing for photographs ahead.

“Mr Sylvia! Mr Sylvia!”

“Over here, Mr Sylvia!”

He blinks, surprised to hear the journalists calling his name. There’s someone with a _Blood Disco_ poster at the railings. He walks over. “Hi.”

“Oh, my God. Mr Sylvia. I’m such a huge fan—”

“You got a pen?”

“Sure, here—” The young man almost drops the marker. Sam catches it, grinning, and signs his name on the poster.  

“There you go. Have a good time.”

“Oh, thank you so much!”

Ruth is watching him; a knowing look on her face when he catches up with her and Justine “And you were worried no one would know who you were anymore,” she says as they pose together for photographs.

“Alright, alright.”

They pass through the gate into the amphitheatre, joining the growing crowd looking for their seats.

“Hey, Sam. Good to see you again.” A welcoming hand briefly clasps his shoulder.

“Oh, hey Brian. Good to be back.”

“Holy shit,” Justine says quietly when the man has walked on. “Holy _fucking_ shit.”

“What?”

“Brian _fucking_ De Palma just said hello to you.”

He smiles. “What, you thought sticking with me was going to be boring?”

“This can’t be real.”

“Mh-hm.” He points. “Know who that is?”

“Fuck. Francis Ford Coppola. _Fuck_.”

“And that’s _his_ kid.”  He squeezes her shoulder briefly. “You alright?”

“Fuck no,” she says, grinning up at him. “I’m better than alright.”

"Yeah," he says. "Me too."


	15. Only One Way To Find Out

**Ruth**

“Hey, um,” he says, handing her a glass of champagne. “Do you have anything to say in case we… win?”

She takes a sip. “You said it was basically impossible that we would.”

He rubs his nose. “Yeah. I mean, yeah. It probably is.”

“But?”

He gestures at their table. “They sat us near the front.”

“So?”

“Well, given that, and the people suddenly speaking to me that I haven’t heard from in at least a decade…”

“You think we have a chance?”

“Maybe.”

She sits back in her chair, taking in the assembled throng talking and drinking in the interval between awards. “Huh.”

He narrows his eyes shrewdly. “You’ve already written one, haven’t you?”

She pulls the paper from her purse. “I don’t like to be unprepared, Sam. You know that.”

He shakes his head, laughing, taking the seat next to her. “I do. I do.”

“Where’s Justine?”

“She’s over by the drinks table. Thinking I can’t see her taking another glass.”

“Do you need to maybe… do something about that?”

“Nah. Burnt hand teaches best, right?” Now he’s teasing _her_. She raises her eyebrows. “I’ll cut her off after this one.”

“What happens if we win?”

“Oo, lots of things. Job offers, money. Lots of people wanting to be your new best friend.” He looks down at the tablecloth, talking to the linen rather than risk looking at her face. “I might want to get in early on the job front.”

“What?”

“I finished my screenplay. If we win, I don’t think funding it will be a problem. And, you know, I think we work pretty well together.”

She stares at him. “You don’t think you’ll be sick of the sight of me?” She gulps, suddenly nervous. “Working together and… seeing each other?”

He smiles, one of the rare kind, without cynicism, as he realises what she’s saying. “Maybe,” he says, because he’s still Sam at the end of the day. “Only one way to find out.”  

* * *

“And the nominations in the category of Best International Short Film are…”

She can barely hear the announcer over the roar of blood in her ears, time slowed to a glacier creep as names are read out to the crowd. Overhead the stars are twinkling; the same constellations that were named by the ancient people who built this amphitheatre. For almost two thousand years this place has borne witness to nervous players, come to strut and fret their hours away on the stage and now the screen. It almost feels like a pilgrimage to have come here – a touchstone of theatre, of drama, of storytelling —

“And the winner is… _Sophie_!”

Applause, thunderous, taken up on all sides. For a moment she sits stunned. This is a dream, a strange dream, and any moment now she’ll wake up and find herself back in the _Dusty Spur_. Or her room in the _Oleander_ ; maybe even back in her old apartment.

Sam’s hand finds hers, tugging her up, on to her feet. “Come on,” he says. “Don’t get all gooey on me now.”

“I won’t,” she says, laughing giddily, though the words are lost in the cauldron of noise.

Together with Justine, they take the stage.  

* * *

****

**_Three Weeks Later_ **

**Sam**

He finishes his second cigarette, checks his watch again. Caffeine and nicotine and nerves combined to make him feel slightly sick. She’s late, but with the traffic in the city being what it is—

_Knock-knock._

“Hey,” she says, smiling nervous on his doorstep. Tired looking, from the long road between here and her folks. Wearing those god-awful jeans she favours; a boyish sweater, not a scrap of make-up. It makes no sense, no sense at all, that his stomach should swoop at the sight of her.

“Hey,” he says, in return. Good trip? he means to ask, but finds he is kissing her on the doorstep instead. Pathetic as it is, he’s missed her like an absent limb. Terrified good sense would return in their weeks apart; the madness of their time in Sicily put behind her as mere holiday romance.

“I missed you,” she says, against his teeth.

“Mmm,” he agrees, pulling her over the threshold and into his arms. “Me too.”

And there are things he needs to tell her, plans and schemes and ideas, but they can wait. Everything but her can wait.

* * *

 _Ding-dong_.

The doorbell, dragging them up from the depths of sleep.

“It’s eight thirty,” she says faintly, craning to look at the bedside clock. “Who—?””

“ _Shit_. I think it’s that reporter.”

“Reporter?”

“From the _Los Angeles Times_. Remember?”

“No,” she says, as he struggles to untangle himself from the bed sheets. “You didn’t tell me.”

“Didn’t I? They rang just before you got here last night. Fuck.” He pulls on his pants. “I mean, it’s your fault for being so fucking distracting.”

“I don’t – I can’t be here—” she panics, searching for her own clothes.

“Why not?”

“I don’t want people to think that I just… fucked my way into directing.”

“Oh.” He hadn’t considered that angle on things. “Well, you didn’t.”

“I know, but—”

“Alright, alright. Do you reckon you can get down the drainpipe?”

“ _What_?”

“I’ll open the door, you drop down once they’re inside. Then you can ring the doorbell like you’ve just arrived.”

“Alright,” she says. “Go, _go_ …”

* * *

**_SAM SYLVIA SPILLS HIS GUTS_ **

**_The king of low-budget horror talks to the Times about new creative partnerships and mining his roots for a second chance at success._ **

_When production shut down on_ Blood Disco III _it seemed like the end of the road for veteran filmmaker Sam Sylvia. His blood-soaked B-movies remain a staple of college dorms and niche film festivals, but mainstream appeal has always seemed tantalisingly out of reach._

_“I was definitely out in the wilderness for a few years,” Sylvia agrees, “and I couldn’t really see a way back.”_

_A bitter divorce and near bankruptcy forced him to consider other work. Rather than return to film, Sylvia took the unusual decision to helm network television’s experimental women’s wrestling show –_ GLOW _. The show struggled with a difficult time slot throughout its first season, and was even briefly reinvented as a floorshow in Las Vegas, before finding a new home on the Inspiration Network. Off screen, things were just as turbulent for Sylvia, who reconnected with his long-lost daughter Justine over the course of filming._

 _A passion for storytelling clearly runs in the family. The talented teenager wrote a script for what would become the award-winning short film_ Sophie _, with_ GLOW _star Ruth Wilder – more familiar to TV audiences as deranged Russian Zoya the Destroyer – coming on board to direct the project._

 _We talk to Sylvia and Wilder about bringing the sensitive coming-of-age film to the screen,_ GLOW _, and their plans for a new full-length feature. Fans of Sylvia’s earlier work will be reassured –_ The Stranger _is a science-fiction-horror set in the desert after nuclear war – but with the unusual twist of a_ female _protagonist, played by Wilder ..._


End file.
